Home is Where the Heart Is?

I wrote this a while back and almost forgot about it until now.

Home Sweet Home

Less than a year into our marriage, my husband and I desperately needed a change. Our hometown suddenly seemed old and inadequate. We wanted to escape suburbia and live somewhere exciting. We packed up everything we owned and never looked back, saying goodbye to Tampa without a single tear.

Goodbye unbearable heat! Goodbye bikini bars, strip malls, and bugs! Leaving family was hard, but liberating at the same time. Pushy relatives lived too close, came over too often, and told too many embarrassing stories. We had to break away in order to make it on our own.

We arrived in Boston, Massachusetts with little money, but endless optimism. An apartment overlooking the Old North Church planted us in the center of a thriving community. My husband sold his car. Navigating busy streets on foot, we felt the city’s heartbeat underneath and contributed to it. Lifelong friends were found along with promising careers; weekends spent at shows, trendy restaurants, and renowned museums. Everything agreed with us: politics, history, excitement. We fell hopelessly in love with Boston.

One night, I boiled corn on the cob for dinner, listening through open windows to breezes and surrounding conversations. After pouring corn into the colander, I ran across the street for some milk. Delicious smells proved too tempting. When I returned, a hungry squirrel had gnawed its way through the window screen to feast on my dinner. City life presented new challenges indeed! I sighed and picked up the phone, calling rural relatives for advice on how to get rid of a rodent.

Months later, on my way home from work, I noticed a large group forming. People held placards and angry shouts were heard for miles. A political gathering! I pushed myself through the crowd and absorbed their energy. Could it be a Revolutionary War re-enactment or a Kennedy speaking about our duty as citizens? I got to the front of the line, ready to sign a petition. Instead, I looked up and saw one word in bright orange light: Hooter’s. The protestors surrounded by hundreds more people waiting to get inside. Florida’s wings-and-beer franchise found its way into my Boston neighborhood. I walked home, shaking my head.

As winter approached, I remembered my dad’s hopeful words.

“You’ll be back in Florida before the first snowfall.”

Winters, however, weren’t so bad. We were not burdened with dangerous commutes or shoveling driveways at dawn. Soft snowflakes muted the city, blessing pedestrians with rosy cheeks and smiles.

Dad should have warned us about summers.

In the middle of July, a walk around the block ruined a good blouse as quickly as public transportation ruined a good mood. Northern buildings retain heat and central air conditioning is rare, so my husband and I had to buy four window units just to keep the apartment comfortable. Our electric bills went through the roof, bugs came inside for relief and we blew at least one fuse a week.

The summer I became pregnant was unusually hot. My morning walk to work quickly became impossible with extra pounds in front.

“Why don’t we own a car?” I asked.

Even in a diverse and progressive city, courtesy on a crowded subway train is rare. I missed southern hospitality. Then autumn arrived with a fresh breeze and news we were having twins. We shared the excitement with family over the phone and heard their cries of joy and delight. Hugs and kisses would have felt much better.

After the boys were born, elated relatives descended on Boston’s North End neighborhood. I welcomed their help and advice with open arms. Our newborn sons soaked up the love and after everyone left, I felt a void and wondered how to fill it.

Our friends! Our chosen family! However, those friends were busy making families of their own, exchanging city for suburbia, leaving us with two screaming infants and no support system. Nursing my sons at night, I’d often pause at the window and gaze at city lights around me. Lights that held such promise and pride, yet no one in those busy windows loved me. That was becoming more important than I’d ever dreamed imaginable.

One evening over dinner, I looked at my husband and asked,

“Are Boston and Tampa so different?”

He put down his fork and smiled.

“Both cities get hot and bugs here are just as frightening,” I continued.

“Every city has positives and negatives,” he said. “Each resident trades one for another.”

“What are we going to trade?” I asked. “Are we going to teach our children that a theatre district and liberal neighbors are more important than family?”

At that moment, four years into our adventure, I looked back at Tampa and tears finally came. My husband wiped them away and said,

“Sometimes seeing from a distance is the only clear way to see anything at all.”

Home isn’t always where the heart is. My heart will forever belong to Boston, that remarkable city we conquered and learned the more things are different, the more they are the same. We won’t ever be fans of bikini bars, strip malls, or bugs. But that doesn’t matter much anymore. While our children play with family members they know so well, in an air-conditioned house, in a Tampa suburb, we laugh at embarrassing stories and regret nothing.

Home at last.